


The Thief

by svartalfheimr



Category: Inception (2010), Tenet (2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Cognitive Dissonance, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Canon, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26428459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svartalfheimr/pseuds/svartalfheimr
Summary: He goes to sit on the recliner chair set next to the PASIV. He raises his hand when Neil steps forward. “I need to find out on my own,” he tells him. “Don’t come in.” A disapproving frown and the beginning of a scowl—Neil looks ready to protest. “Don’t come in,” he reiterates.For a moment, he expects an argument. He can see it in the tensed lines of his shoulders. Seconds tick by, wasted time spent in a heavy silence.“Fine,” Neil relents, eventually. “I won’t.”(Canon compliant. An Inception fusion, of sorts)
Relationships: Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 271





	The Thief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [7567](https://archiveofourown.org/users/7567/gifts).



> Once again, Nolan came for my sanity, threw idiots my way and expect me not to let them live rent free in my mind? how dare he
> 
> Surprise fic for my partner! the year is 2020 we don’t need roses we need some angsty yearning with a side of euphemistic smut ok
> 
> (yes yes i screwed up and deleted it right after posting it so technically it's a repost)

> Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.

– Ray Bradbury, _Fahrenheit 451_

  
  
  
  


“Vodka tonic.”

The order, albeit expected, is a blow to his chest. He smiles, raises an eyebrow and sits back more comfortably. The street below them is bustling, entirely unaware of the magnitude of the words just uttered. On his two, the sun is slowly setting behind a five-story building. He lets his hands slide behind his knees, the gesture not quick enough to gain attention but fast enough for it to conceal his shaking fingers. 

On his ten, there is a woman on the phone. Her lips are a dark-cherry red, mysterious and inviting, and her foundation is impeccable. She wears big, rounded Oliver Peoples with polarized lenses. The attire is good enough to hide her black eye. Well. Almost good enough. The Manhattan in front of her sits untouched. She’s been tracing the rim with her forefinger since she answered her call. He is not fluent in Farsi but he understands there is a lawyer at the other end.

“And for you, sir?” the waiter asks, with a flawless Mid-Atlantic accent. He takes a look at him. Groomed beard, sophisticated haircut and polished nails. A quick glance at his watch—Patek Philippe, he’d wager. A man does not buy an item like this on a waiter’s salary.

“Diet coke,” he replies with a dismissive tone. No visible weapon. His outfit is too tight to conceal a firearm but a knife isn’t out of the game yet. He watches him go to another table. An older man who ogles him unashamedly. _When are you done,_ he asks him. He can only see the waiter’s back so the answer is lost to him.

“Is this a social call?” Neil asks with a tired smile, gaining his attention. He’s slouching on his seat. Half of it is pretense. The other half is because he is simply more comfortable like that. His eyes are roaming over his face. 

“It never is,” he replies with a raised eyebrow. Neil laughs quietly. He turns his head halfway to hide it but his shoulders shake with it. He crosses his legs and his fingers tap on his knee in rhythm with _New York, New York_ playing in the background. The sight makes his breathing quicken; he tenses despite himself, willing his body to stay calm.

“I’m not really thirsty,” Neil tells him in his usual nonchalant way. His eyes are twinkling with defiance. “Are you?”

“What if I am?”

“Well, then.” He shrugs, eyes going back to the street below them. “We drink.”

And they do. The waiter comes back with their orders. He takes a quick, subtle sniff at his drink, which is useless—the amount of aspartame in this glass covers up pretty much anything. From what he can gather, it’s clean. He still puts it back on the table between them. Neil rolls his eyes and takes his coke, gulping half of it down without asking. He puts it back on the table but not before raising it in a parody of a cheers, saying “Prost” sarcastically. The terrible joke still makes him snort. Neil lets a faint smile grace his face at that, one too quick to be considered as such coming from anyone else.

“I need to get access to this building,” he says, handing him a memory card. Neil puts it in his pocket silently. “It’s controlled by a subsidiary of Proclus. We have a meeting in one week.”

“Straight to business, I see,” is the muttered reply. His fingers tap on his chin; he takes his vodka tonic in hand and lets the glass rest on his bent knee. “Can I ask why?”

“They have something of interest,” he responds. Neil throws him a side glance and tastes his beverage silently. They need to act fast. Ever since Fischer Morrow collapsed, Proclus gained near absolute control of the energy market. If he’s right then they’re the first step towards what he has to prevent. In the street below, there is a man carrying a concealed weapon. He’s searching through the crowd. There are two others on his six, both heavily armed.

“Alright. Just the two of us?” Neil asks. He glances back at him. He’s dangerously swirling his drink around the glass, eyes fixed on it. His scarf is almost falling. His fingers twitch, the urge to put it back in place rising within him. Neil takes his silence for confirmation. “How strong are our covers?”

“Strong,” he says. Neil grimaces.

“Synthetic identities need time. Especially if we’re going after Proclus.”

“I trust you.” At that, Neil’s eyes sharpen. He fiddles with his diet coke, finally taking a swig. It’s perfect. He should order soda water but he really likes coke. At least he's not having regular. Cherry-red lips stand up. She swallows the last drops of her Manhattan while she takes her purse in hand then knocks the glass down on the table with a slight sniff. His eyes follow her figure until she disappears down the stairs. He looks at Neil and stops himself from sighing. “Let’s go,” he says, standing up, buttoning his jacket. 

Neil follows him silently while he puts cash on the counter before leaving the place. He takes the stairs leisurely, eyes roaming over the painted walls. The whole building is made to feel luxurious for people who don’t know what luxury truly is. He knows better now.

When they stand in the street, he passes through the bustling crowd and takes a hard left in a narrow alley. It’s a dead end. He can hear Neil’s footsteps behind him. When they’re secluded enough, he turns around and pushes him against the wall. Neil’s eyebrows raise in surprise and, when he kisses him, he gasps. It takes one, two, three seconds but Neil kisses back, hands pulling him closer. They share air for a moment, eyes closed, and, when Neil’s nose grazes his cheek, his skin feels on fire. Damn this man. Damn how beautiful he is. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea? In the middle of the street?”

“We’re not in Pakistan anymore,” he replies playfully. He kisses him again, hands shaking when one buries in blond hair and the other tugs at his scarf, caressing his chest. He steps back, straightening his jacket. Neil huffs and offers him a cheeky smile with tousled hair now to accompany his disheveled look. He’s perfect. Almost perfect.

He draws a gun on him, aiming at his chest. He now knows for a fact that the man’s not wearing a vest.

Neil raises an eyebrow. “What’s this for?” Even his tone is on point. He clenches his jaw.

“I’m not asking twice,” he says, voice calm. “Who are you?”

He shoots him in the thigh. It is sudden; the street at the end of the alley stills and, besides them, the wall starts to crumble. He has his answer. The man shouts in pain; his knees buckle. He puts a bullet through his skull. 

Below them, the ground starts shaking; he can hear people panic. No doubt left—he shot the dreamer. He doesn’t have much time before everything collapses. He sprints out, goes for the crowd and tries to get lost in it. His heart rattles against his ribs; the crowd becomes more aggressive. He needs to leave. He is being tailed, he can feel it. He takes sharp turns, goes through someone’s house, ignores the complaints and gets out from the back door. He can hear a building collapsing, the cries following. Sirens sing far away. He hides the gun from view and looks at his reflection in a display window, getting a good view of his tail. It’s the older man from the hotel. He takes hurried steps, waits for him to be close enough; he turns back and shoots him once, twice. He’s got him in the shoulder. He runs after that. The tremors get stronger; the windows rattle. He takes a look around. Looks like some knockoff Mumbai. He needs to find a solution, quick. If he wakes up with no knowledge of who they are, his chances drastically diminish.

Looming over everything stands the Empire State Building. Bold and dangerous. Has to be it. He’s maybe half a mile away. He hopes he’s not wrong. He looks around, sees a bike. He takes it and heads to the skyscraper. 

He’s hit by an armored SUV, propelled into the other side of the street. He blacks out.

  
  
  


He wakes up tied to a chair. He has an IV in his wrist, tied to a PASIV device. His mouth has been taped shut. “Fuck!” someone shouts. He turns his head in time to see the punch; he tries to go with it but it still stings. His chair falls down on the floor; his shoulder protests and his head hits the ground. He works on the knot behind his back, ignoring the throbbing in his temples. 

He can hear a door being burst open on his six. Shots are fired; the woman who hit him goes down. Hands work on the knot tying his wrists together. He recognizes those hands; he relaxes. “The cavalry has arrived,” Neil says behind him, voice tight. He closes his eyes for a second, relief washing through him. He passes out.

  
  
  


The ground is moving when he wakes up. He opens his eyes. He’s inside a shipping container. He takes a look around. Neil is sleeping on his three. He looks good; his hair’s a mess but it’s nothing unusual. There’s a PASIV device on his nine between two recliner chairs. He sits up. His head protests a bit. He takes the bottle of water next to him, swallows down the two white pills and empties it in one go. When he puts it back down, Neil’s eyes are open. He’s watching him.

“You’re welcome,” the blond rasps with a wry smile, sitting up and stretching. “We’re en route to Helsinki.” He nods silently and lays back down, closing his eyes. He can hear Neil walking. He feels something landing on his chest; he palms it blindly. Energy bar, he’d guess. “Should we worry?”

“No,” he mutters. He’s not sure what exactly they were looking for but what matters is that they were looking for _something._ “I woke up on time.”

Neil snorts. “Or earlier, from what I saw.” He can hear him fidgeting. He ignores him. “We have eight hours left,” the blond informs him. It should be enough. More than enough, actually. He raises his hand and Neil pulls him up automatically. He hovers for a bit but, when they see he can stand fine on his own, he takes a step back.

He goes to sit on the recliner chair set next to the PASIV. He raises his hand when Neil steps forward. “I need to find out on my own,” he tells him. “Don’t come in.” A disapproving frown and the beginning of a scowl—Neil looks ready to protest. “Don’t come in,” he reiterates.

For a moment, he expects an argument. He can see it in the tensed lines of his shoulders. Seconds tick by, wasted time spent in a heavy silence.

“Fine,” Neil relents, eventually. “I won’t.”

He doesn’t have a choice. He needs to find out before they come ashore. He checks the device, verifies if everything is set. It is. He sees how the other man watches him intently; it's unusual for a Tenet agent to be so comfortable with a PASIV; contrary to the military, they don't use it as much. They can't invert themselves in a dream, can't make an inverted world either—the mind rebels. Even if some succeeded, projections are too violent to be contained. They use PASIV devices for training purpose but it's not as effective as going through a turnstile. For all Neil knows, he's either been training with PASIVs before Tenet, or he's been using it for other purposes. Considering their line of work and what the blond knows about him, it probably looks like he's familiar with the material because he uses it to steal information. It could be true but he's far from being an expert and the process requires too much time. And he already doesn't have enough of it as it is.

He makes himself more comfortable, sets the timer for six hours and inserts the IV in his wrist. The world around him starts blurring; he falls asleep watching Neil’s worried face.

  
  
  
  


He wakes up in Oslo. He’s on his own. He takes a look at the bed. The covers have been pushed away on the other side. His hand clenches around the sheets. He sits up, feet on the ground, touching the soft carpet. He stretches lazily. He has time. He gets up, puts on the pair of pants lying on the floor, forgoing briefs. He goes straight to the balcony. He leans against the railing and watches the city below. It’s still early but the street is already bustling. After half a minute on his own, he feels arms embracing him and a kiss on his naked shoulder.

“Hello,” Neil murmurs in the crook of his neck. He can feel him smile against his skin. “We had a lie-in, today?” He hums in agreement when the blond nips him playfully but doesn’t reply. The chest against his back vibrates with laughter. “You need coffee.”

He doesn’t, not really, but he won’t say it. When Neil leaves him on his own, the balcony feels cold. He goes back inside. There was no kitchen in their suite in The Thief but there is one here. The coffee machine is working, Neil standing in front of it, arms crossed and waiting. There are eggs on the counter besides him, sitting untouched because Neil is a lousy cook. He silently takes a pan and turns the stove on. 

He makes scrambled eggs. They’re okay. The coffee is good. Neil eats his plate in silence, eyes focused on the window. He observes him without saying anything, sipping his mug. The moment is ridiculously domestic. He cherishes it with his entire being.

“We had a breach,” he says after a while because things never last forever. Neil’s eyes slide back to him, a questioning look on his face. “I need to check everything’s clear.”

“What happened?” 

“Someone tried to come in here,” he says with a sigh. Neil’s fingers on the table tap in a random rhythm. “I realized something was wrong before it was too late but better be safe than sorry.”

Neil nods then asks, “how did you find out?”

“You were there. Well, not you. And not—” He cuts himself short and crosses his arms over his chest. He averts his gaze when Neil raises an eyebrow and gives him a wry smile.

“How did you know?” the blond asks, getting up, taking both of their plates to put into the sink. He watches him walk around the table, sees the tension in his shoulders.

“I kissed him,” he explains. He receives no reply. He watches him clean the plates, the clang of the cutlery and the constant sound of water hitting the sink cutting a hole through his chest. His hand grabs Neil’s leg, tugging. When everything’s washed, the blond complies; he lets himself be pulled down on his lap with a shake of his head. He doesn’t care—he kisses him, taking his time, lets his fingers play with his hair. “It wasn’t you,” he whispers against his lips.

Neil gets back up after another quick kiss. “It could’ve been him,” he comments. He waits for the other shoe to drop. There's always one when he's in one of these moods. “Ah, no, it couldn’t have.” The blond leans back against the counter, slouching. “Because you never kissed him.”

He stays silent. After a long moment, Neil smiles ruefully. “You know where my rucksack is,” he says, making a brief shooing gesture with his hand.

He nods, gets up and walks to the exit silently. He pushes the door open and steps into Stalsk-12. From there, he knows the way. He goes into the tunnel, walks the long path until he's inside the bunker. The rucksack is still on the ground, behind the gate, except there's no body attached to it. Here, he has no trouble opening the door; he doesn't need someone else to do it for him. He takes a look inside. Everything is here. He reads through the files. Nothing missing. He looks around. Everything is locked. He closes the rucksack and holds the charm in his hand for a while. The weight of it comforts him.

He can hear Neil’s footsteps approaching. He clenches his jaw. He already knows what's coming. It doesn't mean he's ready for it.

“Let me go,” Neil tells him.

“No,” he says. This is for him. His fist clenches around the charm. He refuses to budge when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Let me go,” he tells him again.

“No,” he says again. He gets up, turns around. Neil stands still, smiling. There’s sadness in it. They’ve been having this same conversation every time he came in here for the past months. “I can’t,” he admits. It’s the same thing every time. He could do something about it but he doesn’t want to. They repeat the same conversation over and over; he should be used to it by now. He’s not. Arguing with Neil, even if it’s about _this,_ is still something he cherishes. 

“He’s right there,” Neil tells him, pointing at the end of the tunnel. “Why can’t you see it?”

He shakes his head, goes around him and leaves. The walk in the tunnel is spent in silence. When they’re outside, they’re far from the hypocenter. They’re at the exact spot he saw him for the last time. Neil stands besides him, staring at the horizon. Contrary to the streets outside of their suite in Oslo, there are no projections here. Only the two of them. Neil is wearing his tac gear, the blue armband taunting him in its glaring obviousness. He wants to rip it off him. He stares at the blond’s hand instead. He doesn’t take it. He’s usually not the one to make the first move.

“We all leave something behind when we die,” Neil muses, walking around, hands moving in tempo with his words. These tics are among his favorites. From what he gathered, Neil hasn’t spent a lot of time in Italy but it was enough for him to form habits that seem hard to shake off. Whenever he explains something or tries to convince someone, his hands move in rhythm with his words; when he wants to take the floor, he raises his hands and even touches whoever he’s talking with repeatedly if needed. He doesn’t know if he ever noticed how obvious it was, especially among people in their line of work, or if he actually knew but simply didn’t care. 

“A legacy of sorts,” Neil continues, oblivious to his internal monologue. “We’re echoes in someone else’s memories, sometimes so strong that our absence is almost tangible. When we die, we leave ghosts in the machine, ersatz facsimiles of what we used to be. We become carbon copies twisted by how others perceive us.” He stops in front of him, staring at the ground. “I gave you so much more. I gave you the opportunity to create rather than remember.” The blond takes a step forward. His fingers graze his clenched fist. “Now let me go,” Neil murmurs, softly trying to pry his hand open. “He’s right there.”

“No.” He abruptly puts the charm back in his pocket. “Let’s go,” he says, not looking back. Rather than going through the door leading to their suite, he walks up to the hills. There is no helicopter here; when he's on top, he can see the beach. If he looks through his binoculars, he’ll be able to see Sator’s F50 cat sailing far away from the shore. There’s a merchant below, selling handmade trinkets and souvenirs to tourists. He takes the charm in hand, comforted by its even weight. Two months after the _incident_ with Priya, he went to Vietnam. He spent time at this exact beach, knowing what had transpired not so far away. He looks at the charm. This is where he bought it. 

The weight is always even here. If he spins it on a table, it could land on either side. In reality, it doesn’t. It always lands on the same side.

He looks at the sea for a long moment. He still has time. He walks back to Stalsk-12, avoiding his previous path. The door leading to the Thief stands among the ruins, in the middle of nothing. He touches the wood with his fingertips, leaving visible traces on it. Sometimes he’s still surprised at how real everything feels.

He pushes the door open, entering the living room. The TV screen is off. There’s a jacket draped over the couch. It’s twice his size—definitely not his. He puts it on anyway; he didn’t feel the chill in the closed city but he knows there’s often a slight breeze on the terrace. He passes through the dining room, taking a glance at the table here. He can almost see the blueprints of the freeport lying on it again, imagining himself timing their mission while Neil and Mahir go over about specific details and blind spots. He stands in front of it for a couple of seconds more then takes the stairs that lead to the rooftop terrace and opens the door.

It’s a good day today. The chill isn’t too cold and the Amalfi coast is magnificent. Neil is leaning against the railing, a glass in hand. Water, he guesses. It’s strange to see him here, on the _Terrazzo dell'lnfinito_ since he was never there in the first place. It feels right somehow. 

Here, he can create an entire world made of memories, where logic does not truly reign—the rooftop terrace in Oslo was nice but it was clearly nothing compared to this. He's heard of dreamers capable of so much more, capable of creating worlds defying the laws of physics and twisting reality itself; he's nowhere near that. The best he can do is create a world where he can go from one place to another by simply pushing a door open. He created this space with memories, something everyone knows is dangerous, but he's never been afraid. He can't confuse here with reality because, here, he has Neil.

Neil stands at the center, between the marble busts, a modern Adonis in his own right. The statues are horrible; he does not really have an eye for sculptures, favoring paintings and sketches, so he’s not sure if their flattened faces are the results of time or simply an artistic choice. In any case, he finds them ugly but they’re part of the scenery so he kept them. With Neil standing here, it feels like the place was made for him—that someone, centuries ago, planned to build this belvedere, knowing that one day Neil would stand here and show the world the true beauty they envisioned. 

He takes a look at his outfit. He’s learning how to spot true luxury goods when he sees them now. It’s a bit difficult acting the part when he’s among the real wealthy so he doesn’t really try; when he has to act like a rich guy, he favors the up-and-coming opulent over the trust fund baby. The very rich tend to get suspicious if his money is said to be old. What’s funny with Neil is that everything he wears is expensive but, with his nonchalant act and his tendency to wear clothes just a little bit too big, it tends to seem more affordable. This is something he sees now more than he used to; true luxury items do not necessarily look expensive. They just are.

He takes the steps separating them and slips a hand against his back. Neil tenses at first, looking at him silently; slowly, he can feel him relax.

Their past conversation is forgotten, then. It’s usually the case. He smiles at the blond, smoothly leans against the railing and fiddles with the lapel of Neil’s jacket.

“You know, I don’t get it,” he says. He points with his chin at the monstrous yacht before them. “I’m pretty sure the owner never even uses it. What’s the point?”

“Exactly that, perhaps,” Neil says after a beat. “You don’t see the appeal?”

“Not really,” he replies dryly. He can see the responding snort, even if the blond turns his head to hide it. His fingers slip to his neck, then slide across his shoulder, trailing down until his hand settles against his chest. He can feel his heart hammering against it. He decides to close the distance between them, inserting himself smoothly in front of him. Neil’s blown pupils go back and forth, roaming over his face. He sees him swallow, throat bobbing up and down, and hears him release a shaky breath. His hand on the blond's chest wanders higher and higher until he buries his fingers in soft hair and pulls him down. “Let’s go downstairs,” he whispers. Neil takes in a sharp breath when his lips graze his own, a pale copy of a kiss. 

“Okay,” he replies. He’s won—a smile ghosts at the corners of his mouth. He spins them and pulls him towards the stairs, fists tugging at his jacket and Neil laughs brusquely with the momentum. He loves that sound.

He lets go of him when he opens the door leading to the suite. Once he’s downstairs, he turns back. Neil stops walking and hangs back, making aborted gestures that speak louder than words—half attempts at straightening clothes that never are and taming strands of hair that rebel too easily. It never ceases to surprise him. When he's in character, Neil can be dressed to the nines, hair perfectly slick and not a speck of dust or mud to be found on his pristine clothes; when he's not, he's always _fashionably_ unkempt. Or maybe he's simply disheveled but succeeds at making it look good. He takes hold of Neil’s collar and pulls him off the stairs flushed against him; he spins them and starts making him walk backwards inside the bedroom. Once they’re in, Neil looks a little lost, hands clenching and unclenching on thin air. He pushes him softly on the bed, sees him go down, propping himself up on his elbows. He looks positively delicious.

He doesn’t wait; he looms over him, puts his hands on each side of him and kisses him deeply. Neil lets out an exquisite moan and melts when he nips at his lower lip. He can feel his hands slowly sneaking around his back.

This is where things get complicated. He tries to never dwell too much on the fact that he’s fucking a projection of his own mind—a projection of a very real person he knows. Someone who, in reality, is currently stuck with him inside a shipping container.

Reality isn’t something he thinks in situations like this. But then, reality doesn’t mean the same as it used to. 

This is what he knows—reality is something he has to protect. Here, reality doesn’t matter. What matters is what he wants to matter and what he has to keep away from reality. Secrets, knowledge, lies, among other things. What’s another secret when you hold the cards that could change the fate of humanity in your hands?

“I want you,” he murmurs on Neil’s skin, nipping at his neck, taking every little gained reaction for himself. It’s a game they’re both familiar with; sometimes he’ll act like this is the first time they do this, like he doesn’t know him inside out. Sometimes Neil will play along; other times he doesn’t. He never knows which it’s going to be until he is met with the fact.

Neil nods shakily, doesn’t say anything, but his hand settles on the back of his head and, when he kisses the side of his neck, a breathy moan escapes the blond’s lips. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, kisses every inch of skin revealed. Neil is shaking under him, gasps echoing throughout the room. The last button is undone; he pushes the shirt away. It takes a moment for the blond to understand what he wants; when he does, he fumbles with taking off his sleeves. It’s hurried and awkward. He can't stop himself from laughing against his neck and one of his hands pushes him back on the bed. He takes off his own jacket and throws it to land somewhere across the room. He doesn’t waste time; he straddles Neil’s waist and kisses him like he can’t breathe without him. He’s getting hard—not quite there yet but it’s a matter of seconds now. The blond’s hands clench on his thighs into fistfuls of cloth and his fingers shake with want.

He bites his lower lip then starts trailing down again. He kisses his neck, tastes and nips, marking the skin. Neil closes his mouth shut to stop himself from moaning at that—he bites just a bit harder in retaliation. He earns a groan and a full body shiver.

He goes lower, mouthing at his chest, nibbling on a nipple. The reaction isn’t quite the one he expects; Neil curses loudly, a broken _oh_ follows and his hand abruptly goes to his mouth to cut the sound. This won’t do. He takes the offending hand away and buries it in the sheets. “Don’t do that,” he whispers against his mouth and his thumb and forefinger play with his chest; he twists one nipple and swallows the responding moan. He tweaks, rubs and pinches it; Neil thrashes beneath him, panting heavily.

“Don’t do this, then,” Neil says frantically, voice high and full of misplaced affront. It makes him laugh. For a short instant, he forgets about the task at hand and lays his forehead on the blond’s collarbone, enjoying the moment. He intertwines his hand with Neil’s, marveling at how natural and easy the gesture feels. He brings his fingers to his lips and lays a chaste kiss on them, an untold promise of devotion. This bedroom, here, is one of his most kept secrets; the walls heard things no one knows about, words no one ever utters anymore. If the room could talk, it would speak of whispered thoughts shared at dusk, shameful admissions murmured between kisses and dangerous confessions spoken in hushed tones during the quiet seconds preceding sleep.

The moment is broken when he decides to speed things up; he puts his hands on Neil’s belt and starts unbuckling him. This is where things can get intense real quick.

But Neil stops moving. 

The reaction, albeit not as loud as a push, stops him dead in his tracks. Fingers still on his buckle, his thumb pressed against the leather, he stares at him, waiting.

Neil looks at him but stays uncharacteristically silent. His eyes roam over his face, expression stricken, so he sits back, takes his hands off him and wonders if maybe he should raise them. He shakes his head, rising on his knees. “We don’t—we don’t have to do this,” he says, aiming for a calm tone and missing the mark entirely. He shuts his mouth and decides to give him space, backing off—

Neil reacts immediately, the motion setting something off; he grasps at his waist and stops him from getting further away. “No, no, no,” the blond protests right away, hands clutching at his pants. “Don’t go; I just—”

“Hey,” he tries to go for reassurance. “It’s alright. We don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Neil blurts out, out of breath. When he stares at him like that, eyes wide, lips parted, the want expressed in every inch of his face… It’s a dangerous sensation. He sits back down gingerly. He doesn’t notice anything that could be seen as backing off. 

“Yeah?” he still asks. Neil swallows then nods, once, and his hands trail higher, touching skin, giving him goosebumps. He shivers, eyes closing, and he hears the choked out moan, feels the hands twitching, tightening on his ribs. He’s pulled down and he goes with the motion without protest. Neil makes him sit down on him and it takes all of his restraint not to roll his hips. In the end, he’s not the one who does it.

And the sight he’s graced with—Neil’s back arching, head tilting back, eyes closing tightly and the way he exhales shakily—it’s breathtaking. The blond’s hands clench around him, canting his hips again and again. He tries to stay immobile, let Neil set the pace and take. He can feel him harden below him, see how his chest flushes, hear the quiet gasps he makes every time they come into contact. Neil bites his lower lip and heavy lidded eyes look at him like they're expecting something. For a long moment, he’s not sure what it is. Neil’s hand goes to his pants and he unbuttons him expertly, taking his hand in his own and placing it on his belt buckle. 

“Come on,” the blond whispers, fingers caressing his skin invitingly. He doesn’t need to be told twice. He slips the belt off, the expensive leather kissing his fingertips and he has the urge to tie Neil’s wrists to the headboard. They have time for that, he muses. He discards the belt, the buckle making a dull sound on the carpeted floor, and leans over this beautiful man, taking his hands and making them slide upwards on the sheets until they’re settled on the pillows. Neil watches him intently, pupils blown wide, eyes staring at his face like he's afraid to forget it. 

He leans down, hovering just enough to imply the idea of a kiss and whispers against the blond’s lips, “Tell me what you want.”

It’s not a game they often play; most of the time he’s the one in charge and things kind of click on their own. Sometimes, though, sometimes Neil takes the lead, takes him apart piece by piece, only to put him back up again. Other times–like this one–it is more about existing besides one another. There is no rush, no urge, no need, and to think about playing with the idea of them, together, rather than acting on it is a heady sensation on its own. Neil, lying on the sheets, body tight with want, settled between his thighs, is a sight more beautiful than the belvedere of Villa Cimbrone, the rooftop terrace in Oslo and the beach in Vietnam combined. For him, there’s nothing more beautiful than that. He’s not sure something will ever be able to compare to that.

“Anything you want,” Neil replies in a rush. It’s not what they usually do. This is new. What he wants to say is cheesy–it’s stupid to think so because, well, no one’s going to judge him _here,_ but the words stay stuck in his throat anyway.

“I want you,” he settles on and it seems to be the right answer. Neil kisses him fiercely, like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he doesn’t. His hands pull him down until their chests come into contact and the blond lets out a muted moan. He feels him roll his hips below him in a slow rhythm; he smiles at that. His hand sneaks between them, fingers caressing Neil’s skin, and he pushes his pants down, cupping him through his briefs. The kiss is broken; the blond throws his head back on the pillow and hisses.

He takes advantage of the situation to kiss his chin, then goes lower, nipping the side of his neck, then his chest. When he takes a nipple between his teeth, Neil puts a hand over his mouth and sobs. His tongue swirls around it and he groans low in his chest, earning a loud curse. Neil’s never been this sensitive before.

“Did you just say ‘bloody hell’?” he hears himself asking. Neil stares at him like he grew another head. 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he snarks, rolling his eyes. He raises an eyebrow at the retort. Neil grins. “You’ve heard me say much wor—” A loud, lascivious moan swallows his words when he flattens his tongue on the bud. “Yes, just—just right—yes,” Neil breathes, eyes closed and teeth tugging at his lower lip. 

“Uh-huh,” he hums. He does it again and this time he earns a whimpers. He shivers with need, the sound making his body tight with want. Neil starts rubbing against him frantically, a hand gripping the sheets blindly, back arching. He tugs at his nipple with his teeth one last time then goes lower. When he kisses his hip, Neil’s hand on his head clenches. When he mouths his briefs, Neil’s hips twitch and he has to pin them down to the mattress. “No witty comeback, now,” he deadpans. The blond laughs, chest rising with it, and there’s nothing much he can do to stop himself from grinning. 

He pushes down his briefs and he can feel how Neil tenses, stilling. He doesn’t wait more—he licks his length from base to tip and takes him into his mouth.

And that’s when he’s certain. 

Neil is unmistakably thicker but, really, it’s his reactions—the spasms, the way his knees twitch, his gasps, the roll of his shoulders, his slight tremors, the hands gripping the sheets. It’s too perfect to be anything else. He sucks on the head and Neil doesn’t whine, he _groans_ ; he lets his teeth graze skin and Neil’s hand goes straight for his nape, a silent demand; he swallows around him and Neil lets out a breathy moan, quiet rather than tumultuous. His own hands tighten on the blond’s hips and, for a brief moment, his heart aches. He will never be able to render him so perfectly.

Neil moves—he holds himself up on his elbows, chest heaving, and he looks at him with desperation in his eyes but doesn’t say anything. Head bobbing up and down on his length, he eases his throat little by little and stares back. Usually, that’s when Neil calls him by his name, when he whispers it like a sinful secret begging to be shared. But right now Neil doesn’t. It’s probably because he doesn’t know it.

“Please,” the blond murmurs instead and it’s a blow to the chest. He loves it, more than he should, a simple word that makes his blood boil and his mind go rampant—but still. The hand on the back of his head slides to his shoulder and pulls him upwards desperately. He complies, lets himself be dragged into a feverish kiss, lets Neil’s hands push his pants down and pull him closer. He breaks the kiss and slides to the side, arm reaching for the lube in the bedside drawer. The bed is big so he fumbles for a couple of seconds; when he glances back, he sees Neil panting heavily, hair a mess, looking right back at him. He takes the bottle and settles back on him, lining them up and, with his free hand, he tucks a loose strand of hair back. 

“I told you not to come in,” he whispers, breath ghosting across the blond’s lips, then kisses him forcefully, stopping anything he might say. Neil tenses but kisses back. He doesn’t know if what he feels from him is desperation or anger. He sits back on his knees and pulls the blond up with him, biting his lower lip. He opens the bottle, squeezes a small amount of lube on his palm and rubs his hands together to warm it up. When it's good, he pushes them back on the bed, takes hold of them both in his hand, setting a hard pace, clutching tightly. Neil groans at that and he swallows it. The blond grips at the bedsheets, panting heavily, and, when he twists his wrist, he squeezes out of him a loud, unrestrained moan. He licks his jaw, feels his stubble rasp against his lips and he wants to make a mess of him, to have him go wild and unrestrained. Damn this man. Damn how beautiful he is. 

There's a sudden urge to have Neil writhe on his cock, to make him whine and cry with desperate pleasure, to ruin him until he can't even remember his own name, to mark him and make sure he'll never leave. Damn him. Damn all of this.

“Don't stop,” Neil whines, “don't stop.” He says it over and over, like a prayer and it's sinful because he wouldn't be able to stop even if he wanted to. He starts thrusting in tempo with his hand, his thumb playing with Neil’s slit and he groans, head hanging low on the blond’s shoulder for an instant.

“Kiss me,” he demands and he doesn't wait long; they kiss messily, sharing shaky breaths and quiet moans. He can feel the pressure building, the urge to thrust harder more difficult to quell and, with Neil thrashing beneath him, it’s increasingly more strenuous to stop himself from flipping the blond over and fuck his thighs while growling in his ear. He squeezes the heads, trying to slow down the inevitable, and the abrupt move makes Neil arch his back and opens his mouth in a silent cry. For a split second, he freezes, knowing what he’s witnessing, knowing he never truly witnessed it before. He blinks, realizes that he’s got to do something, so he takes both of their lengths and starts pumping harder, faster and there, _there,_ Neil comes with a groan. He feels the hot spurts on his fingers, sees them coating the blond’s stomach, the sobs shaking his frame, and his eyes focus on his bobbing Adam’s apple. This—this is the sight that can compete with Neil looking at the sea on Sator’s belvedere. And this, he doesn’t have to share it with anyone else. It’s his.

He’s greedy so he pumps him as much as he can to make the moment last. Neil sobs but still cums on himself, thrashing. A hiss and a jerk of his head—he lets go of him, the signs of his hypersensitivity easy to see. He sits back on his knees and takes himself in hand, thrusting with abandon in his own fist. He shivers, feeling hands settling on his thighs, squeezing. His head rolls back and he can hear himself humming, chest heaving. “Look at me,” he hears, a soft whisper—not a demand but a plea. He gasps, fist pumping faster, and it feels like a Herculean task but he raises his head and opens his eyes. He moans at the sight. Neil looks absolutely debauched. His hair is a mess, his lips are a glistening red and he’s panting, exhaustion clears in his features, torso shaking with each breath, uncaring about the cum. His heavy lidded eyes are staring at his pumping hand, hunger evident in his gaze. Slowly, they slide upward, roaming over him to eventually settle on his face. “See me,” Neil whispers, hands clenching on his thighs, nails raking.

“Neil,” he moans, the pull becoming unbearable. “Neil,” he repeats, biting at his lower lip to stop himself from closing his eyes and letting his head drop backwards. And Neil stares at him, understanding written on his face, and he smiles softly.

“I’m here,” he murmurs feverishly. “I’m right here.”

He comes like that, with Neil looking at him like he’s everything. He’s loud, he can hear it, but it doesn’t matter right now. He pumps himself dry, watches cum coating the blond’s chest and growls at the sight. When he’s spent, he leans down and kisses him soundly. Neil lets him lead, seems to enjoy just being near him. After half a minute, he pushes himself away from him and lies down on his stomach towards the bedside drawer; he opens it with his eyes closed and searches through it blindly until he can find the wet wipes. Neil snorts when he throws them on his own back in a lazy move. He moves his shoulder so they fall down, takes one and silently cleans Neil’s torso before their cum dries and becomes uncomfortable. He discards it somewhere on the floor with a flick of his wrist. He’s not entirely sure where. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. 

Neil shifts besides him but doesn’t push his arm off him. He doesn’t move. He can feel how tense the other man is, like he isn’t sure if he is supposed to do something or not. He turns his head to the other side and on the pillow, eyes still closed, but doesn’t move his arm. He can feel it rise and fall with each breath the blond takes. He stops his hand from twitching. He hears Neil’s head shift behind his and can feel his breath tickling his nape. He suppresses a shiver and pretends to fall asleep. Eventually he does.

  
  


He still has time when he wakes up. An hour, maybe. He’s not on his own. They’ve moved since; when he opens his eyes, he’s met with Neil’s back. He’s still sleeping. For a long moment, he simply stays here, watching him. It’s weird and borderline creepy–though he’s way past that, really–but he’s just stuck marveling at the expanse of skin. It’s not the first time he sees Neil’s back, he got glimpses already, but he never had the opportunity to actually look at it. There are freckles and beauty marks that he didn’t know about, constellations of sunspots that make him _him,_ so many things that he himself couldn’t account for. He has the urge to trace them with his finger, with his tongue, his lips; it takes him an ungodly amount of restraint not to touch.

He gets up silently, pulls his pants up and leaves the bedroom without glancing back. If he does, he’s going to do something he’ll regret. He goes straight to Stalsk-12.

His footsteps feel heavy; for each he takes, he’s haunted by one memory of Neil—the moment the blond told him that they were going to _crash a plane_ , the moment when he woke him up to ask about paradoxes, the evening they infiltrated Priya’s tower, the day he met him for the first time, the day he saw him for the last and so many other moments lost to time. He stands there, where Neil left him, told him to _let him go_ then jumped in the helicopter knowing he would never come back.

His projection of Neil elbows him then says, “You don’t have to sulk this much. He’s right there, you know.” He’s wearing the tac suit with that damn blue armband. He doesn’t have the rucksack. “Whoever abducted you knew us well,” the blond tells him, any semblance of pretense gone. He sighs heavily. “Someone talked.”

It's more than likely. Doesn't mean he's happy about that. “Can’t they just be good at their jobs?” he tries.

‘Unlikely. They knew him too well. You cannot account for so many details if you don’t know the person,” Neil says with a shake of his head. “It took you awhile to notice something was wrong; we’re lucky you weren’t in the mood to talk.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I feel like you’re mad at me because I didn’t spill.”

Neil laughs openly, head thrown back. They both fall silent after that. He looks at him, sees him staring at the hypocenter. He takes his hand without saying anything. He hates seeing Neil like this, wearing this damn thing. He doesn’t know what it says about him, that his psyche decided to create a version of Neil that could torture him merely by existing. He looks so real and sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

But it’s the little things. It’s the reactions he can’t anticipate, the smiles, the thoughts, the looks, the hand gestures; a billion little things that make Neil _Neil_ and that he can’t even hope to reproduce. He’s holding the hand of a pale copy of the man he loves, a synthetic shadow projected on a wall. He’s the best he could come up with yet he’s still completely insufficient. 

“It’s time,” the projection says, releasing his hand. He takes a couple of steps, increases the distance between them and _there_ he’s wearing the rucksack. “Now let me go,” he says.

“I don’t want to,” he admits. “Not again.”

Neil smiles, shrugging. “What’s happened, happened.” 

He nods and crosses his arms over his chest. “Which is an expression of faith in the mechanics of the world,” he recites. He looks at him walking away and can’t stop himself from asking, “See you in the beginning?”

Neil raises his hand but doesn’t turn back. “I’ll see you in the beginning, friend.”

He hears the end of the timer. This time a bomb explodes, and he’s not far away enough from the blast radius.

When he wakes up, he doesn’t open his eyes. He pulls the line from his wrist but doesn’t move otherwise. For a long moment, he’s content with simply listening to the lull of the ship carrying them. For a long moment, he simply exists.

He knows the second Neil wakes up. He doesn’t move either but his breathing pattern changes. He turns his head towards him and opens his eyes.

Neil is staring right back at him. He still has the IV in his arm. “I—”

“Don’t,” he mutters, cutting him off. The blond closes his mouth. “Don’t say anything.”

It’s killing him. He can clearly see it; it’s killing Neil not to speak but he still doesn’t. 

He sits up and hunches over, elbows on his thighs. When he hears the blond move, he raises a hand. Neil stops moving. “Did you know?” he asks, voice low. For a long time, he receives no reply.

“No,” Neil admits. “I never suspected. Not until—” he can hear him shift. “Not until you joined me on the terrace.”

He nods silently. He should’ve known. He should’ve noticed earlier. It’s his fault, really, thinking Neil would listen to him when he clearly disagreed. From here on, he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t really play it off or act like it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. He’s completely exposed himself. He even admitted that he _knew_ and didn’t stop.

“Tenet needs you,” he states. He has to play it close to his chest; he’s got to be careful not to imply something he’ll regret. “There are other teams, other—”

“What? _No._ No,” Neil says sharply. “Are you having a laugh?” He stands up abruptly and takes off his IV, letting it fall on the ground. The tiny sound startles him enough he raises his head and stares at him. The blond is shaking his head. “Don’t do this. Don’t push me away.” His hand clenches into a fist that he raises to his mouth and he averts his gaze. Then, he scoffs in obvious disbelief, and says, “haven't you guessed by now?”

He blinks. He feels like there’s a hole deepening inside his chest. He knows the words are a coincidence. Neil takes the steps separating them and crouches in front of him. “Don’t do this,” he says desperately, eyes staring up at him.

And there, it hits him. Neil is _right here._ He’s right here with him. He can see him in his eyes, in the way his hands hover over his legs but don’t dare touching, in his insistence and stubbornness. He’s been so caught up in the differences between Neil _then_ and _now_ that he forgot. He didn’t take into account that he can’t have Neil without having Neil; if he keeps pushing him away then he’ll never have him in the first place.

“I can’t do casual,” he tells him, a first and last warning that condemns him. “This won’t be easy.”

“I know,” the blond replies immediately, determination clear in his features. “I don’t care.”

He swallows. “You got to understand,” he says. “I’m not your future. The further you’ll go—”

“I know,” Neil repeats. He smiles sadly. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispers, closing the distance between them but not touching. He feels how shaky his breath is on his own skin when he murmurs, “Please.”

He kisses him, slowly, like it’s the first time, like he’s discovering what it feels like. He fumbles with his wrist, untying the charm he’s been keeping since he bought it on that beach in Vietnam. Rather than trying to make it spin, he places it in Neil’s open palm and closes his hand around it. He can feel him clench his fist tightly and the blond has to cut their kiss short to laugh in delight. And there, _there,_ he knows; Neil is here, right here, with him. He watches him for as long as he can until the urge to kiss him again is too hard to stop. This time when they part, he lets their lips brush.

Then, he does what he thought he never would—he whispers his name like a sinful secret for Neil to steal and keep.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i only saw the movie once and it shows


End file.
